Highway Patrol
by grumkinsnark
Summary: On December 8, 1991, John Winchester kills his two sons in the backseat of the Impala. Their spirits never leave the car.


This is a response to a prompt (which is the summary to this fic) on the sharp_teeth LJ comm that I thought was deliciously creepy and that I might as well take a crack at it. I'd say "enjoy," but this fic's rather morbid, so...I'll go with "Onward, dear readers."

* * *

**Highway Patrol**

* * *

"All right, so tell me where that son of a bitch is again, Dean," says John, glancing briefly to the right, where his eldest sits. "It was somewhere in Tennessee, right?"

Dean nods, pointing at a spot on the map spread in between them.

"Looks like we're about six hours out, then," replies John, sighing. The road ahead stretches long and shadowed, like a black and endless snake, lit up only by the two headlights of the Impala, the fog all but suppressing even the dull luminance the beams provide. Still, John drives quickly, well-accustomed to the darkness. "You should get some sleep, son."

Dean nods again, settles in against the door. John glances in the rearview, where his youngest rests, shaggy brown hair falling in green-blue eyes.

"You, too, Sammy," says John firmly, giving Sam a familiar authoritative glance before turning his eyes back to the road.

* * *

John's in the zone of just driving, not really paying any particular attention to anything, when Dean taps him on the shoulder. He jolts into focus, and it's then he notices the flashing red and blue lights in the mirror; the cop's siren isn't on yet, but John knows it will be if he doesn't pull over soon.

Aware that there's absolutely nothing on this part of the highway except him—and the cop, apparently—he veers the car onto the shoulder, tires crunching over gravel, glass, and cigarette butts. John rolls down his window and delves into the glove compartment, pulling out his fake license and registration. He tries not to get angry at the interruption (Jesus, that supernatural bastard isn't going to wait forever!), just wants to get through this as quickly as possible.

The officer comes up to the window, shining a flashlight into the car. "License and registration," he says, in as tired a voice as John would expect. John hands them over. "You were going twenty over the speed limit, Mr…" the officer skims the license, "Gephardt."

"Sorry, Officer," says John in fake apology. "It's just that the kids were arguing, and—"

"Kids?" asks the officer with a frown. He shines his flashlight into the front seat, then the back. Then, slowly, looks once more at John. "Um…sir…are you all right?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" asks John, raising an eyebrow at the policeman's confusion. "Look, you gonna give me a ticket or let me go? I kinda got places to be."

The officer shakes his head as if to clear it, then walks to his cruiser, aiming to take down John's (fake) information. John laughs, and turns to Dean next to him. "The people they hire, huh?"

Dean smiles in agreement.

After more minutes than John had anticipated, the policeman returns, and hesitantly gives back John's papers. "Sir, I think you should rest for a while," he says. "There's a motel an exit up. I think you might'a driven one too many miles."

"What are you talking about?" asks John impatiently. He gives a furtive glance over his shoulder to where Sam is. His youngest shrugs, and resumes staring out the window.

"You said something about kids?" says the officer awkwardly. John waits. The cop, evidently fed up, drops his shoulders. "Ain't my department," he mutters tiredly. "Just—just drive safe. 'Specially with this fog."

"You got it," says John curtly, and restarts the ignition. As the officer heads away, John laughs. To his boys, he snorts, "_I'm _the one who needs rest?"

When the policeman strides back to his car, watching the Impala head out, his partner looks at him. "What's up?"

Frowning, he scratches his head uncomfortably. "Man said his kids were arguin'."

"So?"

"So, I didn't see any kids."

His partner rolls his eyes and buckles his seatbelt. "Well, we _have_ been workin' a twelve-hour shift," he says placatingly. "You're probably just tired. And it's dark an' all. Kids were sleepin' in the back, I bet."

"Yeah," says the first officer. "Yeah, you're right."

They drive back to the station, and soon forget about pulling over John Winchester. After all, they have no reason to believe he was lying.

Of course, had they checked again, they would have noticed thick, coppery blood dripping and congealing in the trunk—blood that had once filled the bodies of two young boys. A twelve- and eight-year-old who would only be identified two months later as John Does.


End file.
